


The Prophecies of Demelza

by legend_of_dovahkiin



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, Amazingphil - Freeform, BoyxBoy, Cute, Fanfic, Fantasy, Like, M/M, Magic, Phan - Freeform, Phandom - Freeform, REALLY slow, Slow Build, YouTube, danisnotonfire - Freeform, evolution slow, prince - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8178137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legend_of_dovahkiin/pseuds/legend_of_dovahkiin
Summary: What if you had the choice to decide if good or evil forces would rule? Could you turn your back on everything you believed in? For fate? For prophecies? For love? Prince Phillip of Demelza has always lived in an ivory tower, unaware of the desperate, and secretive struggle going on around him. A struggle that will pull him from the comfort of the world he has always know, and toss him a world riddled with deceit, magic, and romance. All of Philip's walls of security and rules crumble when Daniel, Prince of Avyanna, enters the picture. The young prince seems like a beacon to Philip, helping with his transition into the world of magic, full of deadly and venomous beasts, warlocks, and dragons. But Daniel is shrouded in mysterious and secrets. Will Daniel prove to be the catalyst in Philip's rise to fame, glory, and ultimately the throne? Or will the brown-eyed boy be his destruction?





	1. Preface

Cornelia crouched in the shadows of the thick elm trees, her keen eyes focused on prince of Demelza. The prince strolled aimlessly down the cobblestone path, happily oblivious to the woman clothed in black, lurking just off the path. His hair shone brightly beneath the sun, rays catching certain pieces, making the strands almost glitter beneath the light. His striking, clear blue eyes were visible even from the distance that Cornelia crouched. She could feel the jealously boil in her veins as she gazed at the youthful, beautiful prince, unaware of the journey that lay before him.

The prince was completely absorbed in the book that he was reading as he leisurely walked the palace gardens, stopping to sit on a stone bench as he turned the crinkled, well-loved pages of his book. It would be so easy to snatch him now, to take him by brute force. But Cornelia had strict orders to merely watch the young heir. Besides, she was too weak to take the boy, she thought bitterly to herself as she clutched her black cloak in her gnarled, wrinkled hands that trembled slightly as she gathered the velvety material in her long fingers.

Once, she had been just as beautiful. Once, she had been just as powerful. Soon, she would be again. That is, if the plan was executed flawlessly. But even Cornelia knew that she had to prepare for every possible disturbance before they could claim the power that was wrongfully taken from them.

Even if she had the strength, she couldn't take Phillip. In order to restore the power that was rightfully theirs, he would have to choose them. Forcing him would be in direct violation of the accords, and would seal her and the others' fate to another century of hiding and clemency. 

Cornelia anxiously watched the prince, hoping to see any sign of the ancient power that surged through his veins, pumped into his body with each beat of his heart. It wasn't that she doubted his identity--Cornelia merely wanted to see what she had so long been deprived of. A silent sigh, escaped her lips when it became apparent that Phillip was only going to read. Still, Cornelia watched as his eyes followed the words written on the page, his lips sometimes mouthing the words as if to emphasize them. Curiosity burned in the base of her stomach: what was this book that had the prince so enthralled? It was obvious by the cracked, leather spine and torn, crinkled pages that he had read the book numerous times; the covers had imprints of

his fingers where he had gripped the frail, old material in his sweaty, strong hands. Cornelia made a mental note to look into the book, and figure out what was so special about it.

Cornelia was irritated, aside from the questionable book, he appeared to be an ordinary boy. But Cornelia didn't doubt the god-like beauty he shone with held so much more beneath the surface.

A beauty that had been stolen from Cornelia and the others.

A beauty that she would kill to possess again.

For now, Cornelia was forced to wait. She was forced to merely watch from the shadows and observe the prince's habits. But as time drew on, she was becoming increasingly more impatient with lust and desire for the beauty and power that sat merely feet away from her.

So very, very impatient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Alright, so have kinda already started this fix like eight times but for a different ship, and then I was like "Nah, Imma write for Phan" so if this sounds eerily familiar, this is why. 'Tis my first Phanfic, so let's hope all goes well. Loosely based on Phan, so if you don't ship it or know of them, should still (hopefully) be enjoyable.
> 
> I shall include a general description of the kingdoms and such in the next chapter and how this world works. 
> 
> Also, please comment and let me know your thoughts, and if I missed changing the name at any point, please, please tell me. I worked really hard getting all the names correct, but a few may have slipped through my editing eyes.


	2. The Demelzan Heir

Phil sighed. Tonight he had another royal ball to attend, which meant another night of forced conversations with visiting dignitaries, another night of stuffy and restricting outfits, another night of people using him trying to gain favor with his father. Another night of being Prince Philip of Demelza, single heir to the throne of the great empire, carved out by the blood of the fallen. 

As if the king cared what Phil thought or approved. King Soren was not said to be "the Unwavering King" for fun; his father ruled with an iron fist--and as far as Phil was concerned--a closed mind. Hundreds of new laws have been passed since Phil was born, each more restricting of people's civil liberties than the last. Within the last two months, King Soren has outlawed underage drinking, brothels, and has made even the mere reference to magic punishable by death.

It all seemed rather silly to Phil; his father was stuck in a constant cycle of restricting and limiting, to defend his people, only by making their pen smaller and stuffier.

Right now, however, Phil just wanted to bathe. He was sticky with sweat from his ride on his horse. He had ridden her further than normal, as if he were trying to escape the chain his father had on him and was slowly reeling in, trying to limit Phil just like he was limiting the civilians. Sweat was slowly trickling down his back, pooling in the forest-green, hand-woven riding shirt he was wearing. His boots clung to his feet with sweat, his toes screaming in pain, pleading to be released from their leather prison. His ebony hair glistened like the unpolished brass of the statues in the gardens he frequently walked, and the dried sweat clung to his forehead with such fervor Phil doubted even the harshest of scrubbing would set if free.

Phil yanked open the great oak door that led to his personal chambers, "Kharac? Draw my bath, please. Father will be absolutely appalled if I show up at his precious ball a reeking, sweaty mess." Phil chuckled as his mind conjured up his father’s reaction if he showed up unwashed and dressed in riding clothes.

Kharac stepped into Phil’s view, his brown eyes shining, crinkling around the edges as if he too was picturing the king’s face.

"Ride ol' Leola hard today, sir? Be careful, you'll run the poor thing into the ground."

Phil watched as his steward began twisting the silver knobs, molded into small oak trees, carefully heating the bath water. 

"Please, not even Deyanira herself could ride Leola too hard. She's the strongest, fastest steed in the land, and let's not forget, she's been in the family almost as long as you, and not once has she let me down." He smiled at Kharac, hoping the boy caught true meaning behind his words: if something has stuck around almost as long as you have, it has to be pretty great indeed.

Kharac had been Phil’s only friend growing up. He had come from the neighboring land of Cynric after a fire had burned down his family's land and left him an orphan. Phil remembered when the tall, brown eyed boy had showed up asking for a place with the house staff, a white linen shirt that had more holes than actual fabric, and blue pants held up by a rope clumsily tied around his waist. He remembered hoping that maybe he could finally be like everyone else his age, and this new comer could be his friend. 

Because Phil was the only heir, he was watched carefully, every precaution was taken when it came to the prince: a servant would taste all of his food before it was served, the most elite of the royal guard were assigned to protect Phil at all costs, and all of the nobles children avoided him, too scared they would injure the promising heir and ruin the Lester reign.

But not Kharac. He hadn't cared that Phil was the prince; he would play with the boy on his time off and smile at Phil when he passed him on the way to serving dinners and tea to the king, and talk with Phil as he made the prince's bed, gushing about the dazzling greens and browns of his homeland. "Mama used to say my eyes matched the leaves on the trees," he would turn away from Phil as his eyes darkened, misting over with the memory of his dead family, turning back a few moments later saying, "oh, you have to see it, your highness. There's nothing better than the forests of Cynric."

As the boys grew older, they became inseparable, and it was only fitting for Kharac to be named Prince Philip’s steward. But Phil didn't think of Kharac as his steward, forced to serve the prince because he needed food, shelter, and money. No, Kharac was more like a live-in best friend that was intent on doing chores; even when Phil tried to help Kharac clean his room or draw his bath, Kharac would stop him, his eyes blazing, "Phil, please. This is my job. Let me do it." When Phil tried to argue back that it was unfair and he was perfectly capable of using his hands to at least help, Kharac would chuckle, the mirth and joy returning to his eyes, the different hues if green swirling and say, "oh no. Your hands are destined for the throne, and mine are more than happy to make sure that throne is spotless and sparkling when you finally become king." Phil would still grumble under his breath, but he would drop his hands in surrender and let his friend continue his work.

"Phil? Hello? Your bath is ready, and it's going to be cold soon. Philip?" Phil was sucked back into reality as Kharac placed his big, calloused hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him back from whatever dream-like state his mind had escaped to.

"Should I even bother asking where you were?" Phil looked into Kharac’s warm green eyes that only seemed to brighten with age, and smiled.

"Just thanking Tykhe that I have you in my life." Phil truthfully stated; he didn't know where he would be without Kharac, his companion, best friend, and trusted servant.

"I thank her every day, Phil." Kharac smiled at him as he withdrew to Phil’s room to set out the prince's robes for the impending ball.

Phil stripped off the riding shirt, grimacing as the now dried sweat pulled at his skin, and his feet practically sighed in relief when he finally pried of his too-tight riding shoes. He tugged off his pants and undergarments and quickly sank into the lavender scented water, his aching muscles cheering as the warm water enveloped him.

Phil turned the knob, adding more hot water. Kharac was right; he had been in his head too long, the water was starting to chill. Not enough to actually bother Phil, but enough that he was aware of the colder patches mixing with the warmer water. With the perfect temperature attained, Phil yanked the knob, cutting off the seemingly never-ending supply of water.

His thumb traced the fine detailing of the knob: the slender trunk, the gnarled branches, and the delicate leaves. Everything in the palace was stamped with the tree. Apparently being king was not enough, oh no. Everything his father, or himself for that matter, touched had to be marked with the Lester family symbol because gods forbid, someone didn't think of his father every second of the day. 

It wasn't that Phil didn't appreciate his father or look up to him. He was considered to be a great ruler; Demelza had prospered greatly under his reign. Trading was favored for the Demelzan markets, other kingdoms paid great prices for our goods and in return we paid very little for theirs. Our ports were always full, and our military was the best and most well-prepared, standing tall and guarding our citizens with the utmost respect and diligence. Our cities gleamed; the money from trading was able to employ great work forces that built magnificent towers and buildings. Our people worked as cleaners, washing the copper roofs till they shined in the bright sun, building roads that connected the cities and the countryside, farming great fields of grapes that were fertilized into the most highly acclaimed wines, grains that were baked into every pastry and bread imaginable, and carouberries, a sweet fruit high in essential vitamins that was only able to be grown in the dense soil of Demelza. Carouberries were the pride of the Demelzan people--one of the purple berries was enough to sustain a man for an entire day, making the small fruit almost invaluable.

Phil didn't doubt that everything his father did, he did to help Demelza, but he thought King Soren too often forgot about his people. Sure, trading and political matters were important but Phil believed the king was too rough on the people, too willing to punish and not listen thoroughly, too quick to demand new projects be done in a number of weeks without considering how long the project would realistically take. No, King Soren wasn't a poor king; he was just apathetic, too calculating, and too logical.

Phil hoped to one day accomplish everything his father has, but with the empathy, compassion, and realism his father lacked.

Phil scrubbed absentmindedly at his hair, twisting and pulling at the knots and clumps, trying to yank out the dirt, and any doubts he had about his father and the future of Demelza.

"Don't forget, it's a ball tonight. So the usual stuffy robes." Phil called out to Kharac as he moved from his hopeless head of hair to his body, scrubbing with a pumice stone to scratch away all the grime and, probably, an entire layer of skin.

"Oh, your father sent new robes, requested that you wear them tonight. Well, when I say request. . ." Kharac drifted off, and Phil heard the squeal of his dresser drawers, meaning Kharac was set on making Phil look his absolute best. Another request made by his father, no doubt. 

"Meaning if I don't wear them, I may as well not show up." Phil finished Kharac’s statement, grabbing a towel and pulling himself out of the bath.

He dried carefully, pulling on his dressing robes and meeting Kharac in his bed chambers.

"If father wants me full-on prim and proper, let's get started shall we?” Phil questioned as he motioned to the tangles currently crowning his head.

Kharac sighed, pushing Phil into the plush, high-backed chair set in front of two full length mirrors. "You couldn't have just let me wash it, could you? I feel like you want to watch me while I try and solve the jig-saw puzzle that is your hair."

"I like to think it’s more fun watching you struggle, yes. Plus, you were setting out my clothes and I figured it was very important and I thought it best to wash my hair myself." Phil looked up and grinned as Kharac’s brow furrowed. He could practically see the cogs turning in Kharac’s head, trying to figure out the best way to comb out the prince's hair, preferably without making him bald in the process.

Kharac just chuckled, giving up any logical way of solving the tangled mess, and jabbing the comb into his hair.

"So new robes and an order to make you look without-a-doubt royal, what's going on?" Kharac questioned as he gingerly tugged on a rather large knot.

"Beats me. Something is obviously--" Phil flinched as Kharac stabbed a little too hard into his hair, the teeth of the comb coming into contact with his skin with enough force to leave bite marks. Kharac mumbled apologetically, promising to be gentler, but reminding Phil it was his fault because he hadn't waited.

"--going on. But he hasn't mentioned anything to me. Probably a new law or something, or maybe a priest or priestess left the sanctuary and is visiting. But probably a new law." Phil joked, fully aware that the chances a priest or priestess being there were next to nothing. Everyone knew that priests and priestess would only leave the sanctuary in the most dire of situations--otherwise they were perfectly content to pray all day to the nine gods that watched over the people and the lands of Demelza.

Kharac sighed, knowing that further questioning would only lead to sarcastic, unrealistic responses and instead focused on the unruly tangles on top of the prince’s head.

An hour later, and Phil’s dark hair glistened like a raven’s feathers in the sun. His hair was combed sweeping his bangs to the right, the tips straightened slightly so that when his crown was placed on his head, his hair was still visible.

"Took a while, but I finally got it. Let me look at your face, I need to make sure everything is perfect." Kharac said as he grabbed Phil by the chin, forcing the prince to look at him. Kharac’s own face was long, with thick eyebrows that sit perched on a high forehead; a wispy beard framing his thin lips.

"Well, it is my face, so it's always perfect." Phil joked but remained still, allowing Kharac to inspect him.

"Hardy-har-har. I believe you missed your true calling, Phil. You should have become the court jester." Kharac joked as he tweezed stray hairs from Phil’s eyebrow, occasionally running his thumb along the natural arch of the short black hair, both soothing the irritated skin and forcing the hairs to lay flat against Phil’s pale skin.

"Too true. Maybe tonight I'll tell my father I intend to give up my place on the throne and my crown so that I may trance around in a hat with bells, singing merry tunes that bring a smile to everyone's face, even my own fathers." Phil stood as Kharac’s hand released his chin, and began flailing his arms like he had seen the court jester do many times before.

Kharac laughed as Phil mimicked the jester's dance, and gathered Phil’s new robes, placing them on the bed with a reverence that a priest has when offering harvests to Kereas. He let his hand run along the dyed fur of the robes before turning to get Phil’s shirt, shoes, and pants that were made for tonight.

For the first time, Phil studied the new garments. The short rabbit's fur had been dyed a deep violet, Phil couldn't imagine how many carouberries were used to dye the regal robes. At the base of the robe, oaks were sewn in using golden thread so that when they caught the light, the small trees would shimmer and shine in the way all royal things must. When the purple caught the light, it shone almost silver, contrasting starkly with the golden trees, making the entire robe look luminescent. The whole of the robe was trimmed in slightly longer fox hair dyed white as crisp and clean as freshly fallen snow. The clasp was made out of a diamond that was encased by amethysts cut and carved into perfect circles. The amethysts surrounded the diamond like rays around the sun and were placed on thick gold chain that matched the gold detailing on the robes.

These were ornate even for Phil. 

"What are you up to, father?” Phil mumbles to himself. He called over his shoulder,  “Khar, have you seen this robe? It must be something important." Phil turned and watched as his best friend threw most of his closet onto the floor.

"I know, I was thinking the same thing. He would never order this kind of robe for fun. Something must be-- Have you seen your tall black leather boots?" Kharac turned to Phil, surveying the mess around him, a light pink dusting his cheeks.

Phil chuckled at his best friend, and walked over to the door where his boots rested by the frame, "You mean these ones?"

Kharac stood, brushing imaginary dust off of his blue slacks and straightening his white servants’ shirt.

"Yes, those ones. Grab them and come over here, please. We have a lot to do before you're ready."

"I like to think of my look as effortless, but whatever you say, Khar." Phil bent down and grabbed the dress shoes by their buckles.

The next hour was a flurry of clothes, hands, and dissatisfied grunts from Kharac when Phil’s clothes would crinkle, ruining the “royal” look.

Kharac stepped back, his eyes searching for anything out of place, his fingers fixing Phil’s already perfect hair before reaching for the robe. He clasped the diamond-amethyst brooch and smoothed the robe so it draped carefully around Phil’s broad shoulders and hanged over his muscled chest.

"I dare say, even the king will be impressed with how well you clean up." Kharac joked as he grabbed Phil’s shoulders carefully leading him to the twin mirrors to look for himself.

Even Phil had to admit it; no one could make him look better than Kharac did. His hair fell perfectly, laying flat against his forehead as if it were already bowing with respect to the crown that had yet to be placed on the prince’s head. His dark purple, almost black, shirt and pants were swallowed by the robe--allowing the precious cape to be on full display and the only thing people would be focused on.

"Well done, Khar. My father won't be the only one impressed. I would ask for my own hand in marriage if I could." Phil patted Kharac on the back while turning from his reflection and starting for the ballroom.

"Let's not keep father waiting. You know how impatient he gets, especially when it comes to me." Phil waited by the doorway, allowing Kharac to loosely grasp the fine furs in his hands so that the trimming wouldn't act as a duster and stain the pure white fox fur.

Phil and Kharac twisted their way through the labyrinth of halls, only stopping when they reached the tall oak doors that led to the ballroom balcony.

"Wait. You can't go out without your crown. Give me a second; it's still in the vault." Kharac turned and briskly walked away mumbling about how forgetful he was.

"Hurry back, dear. We mustn't let father get the wrong idea." Phil called to Kharac’s retreating figure, chuckling as Kharac's hand flew up, cursing Phil.

"Harriot, be ready to announce my arrival. I know father has been pestering you about my whereabouts, but a few things need to be done." Phil told the herald. Harriot was more of a father figure to Phil than Soren was, and the white haired, clean shaven man would forever have a soft spot in Phil’s heart.

"As you wish, sir." Harriot bowed and left to wait at the doors. 

Phil played with his hands as paced up and down the brick corridor. He knew something was happening tonight—and something big. His father wouldn’t have ordered new robes unless he had something planned, and the uncertainty of what lay behind the opulent doors was causing his palms to dampen and his heart beat to quicken.

Phil stopped his foolish pacing and turned as he became keenly aware of a gasping and huffing Kharac approaching, his hands fumbling with a velvet pouch trying to grasp the braided golden band that lay nestled inside.

“Phil, I need your head.” Kharac motioned frantically with his left hand, his right clasped tightly around the crown. The crown itself was simple in design yet elegant in reality. The ropes of solid gold had been braided, and then polished so that the dark black of Phil’s hair contrasted starkly with the dazzling, radiant gold of the crown and was easily visible.

“I don’t know if I can do just my head, I think my body will have to come too.” Phil was thankful that his nerves weren’t apparent in his speech and even more thankful that Kharac was too preoccupied with the crown than with his surroundings to notice as Phil underhandedly wiped his clammy hands on his pants. 

“Yea, Yea. Whatever. Sarcasm and jokes, cool. Now seriously, give me your head so I can put this crown on. You’re running late and you and I both know this isn’t just another ball. King Soren is going to have my head if you don’t hurry.” Kharac words came out quickly and jumbled like a toddler trying to run for the first time—shaky and unsure.

Phil obediently walked to Kharac’s side, his head held high. Kharac gently laid the braided band on Phil’s head, his skilled fingers straightening any strands that had been crushed as the heavy metal adhered itself to Phil’s skull. Phil fought the urge to laugh as the tip Kharac’s tongue pressed against his upper lip—a sure sign of deep concentration. Phil knew that laughing would cause Kharac’s hands to jolt in surprise, taking the precariously styled hair with them, causing both of them deep trouble with the king. 

Kharac's tongue returned itself to its warm cavern as he looked Phil up and down, beaming with pride and satisfaction as he said, “You look like a true prince. Now, go. Harriot is ready and waiting—just say the word.”

Kharac clapped Phil once on the back as the prince left his friend’s side, slowly walking to Harriot, each step measured and carefully thought out so that the robes wouldn’t bundle as they trailed behind him.

“Harriot, I’m ready.”

Harriot’s gloved hands turned the oak tree doorknobs and Phil’s heart beat quickened, sadly unaware of the future steadily unraveling before him and of the past he has released from its imprisonment on himself—and those closest to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, there's the first chapter. 
> 
> Background: 
> 
> Demelza is one of three kingdoms and is located on the Sea of Deyanira. Demelza is bordered by Cynric, a land of forests, and Avyanna, a magical and mysterious land people know very little about. 
> 
> Magic has been outlawed in Demelza, but is legal in Avyanna where those with "dark" magic fled. In Demelza, anyone suspected of magic is killed. Magic destroyed the world once so this new "utopia" was created by banishing and killing all magical beings. Magic is just whispered fairytales, but the people forgot to distinguish between "good" and "dark" magic. Every few centuries there is one person born will "good" and "dark" magic and has to decide which will be the ruling magic. It's not as easy as it seems: it isn't just good vs. evil. There are benefits and serious repercussions to both sides which will become clear as the story progresses. 
> 
> It is a polytheistic religion and the gods are very active and very revered, and they have their own hierarchical system which correlates to which magic is ruling. 
> 
> As of this moment, you know:
> 
> Deyanira--goddess of destruction
> 
> Tykhe--goddess of good fortune and gratitude
> 
> Kereas-- god of the harvest 
> 
> Vote, comment, share, etc. 
> 
> Thank You! 
> 
> I will update as much as I can, I know these first three parts are very quick, but they were already written, so I just have to edit. Also, it is very cumbersome to change your main characters' name after you have already written a fair amount, but live and learn. I suppose.


	3. The Most Indignant News

As Harriot opened the doors, bright light flooded into Phil’s eyes causing shapes and spots to flicker into his vision. The dark corridor he was standing in seemed dreary and depressing compared to the bright light and steady thrum of people in the ballroom.  
As he made his way onto the balcony, Phil’s eyes widened. King Soren had something huge planned; Phil had never seen the ballroom decorated this thoughtfully and beautifully before. Dozens of lanterns were suspended from the ballroom's vaulted ceiling, the flames dancing in time with the myriad of people beneath them. The white-marble walls shone orange like a setting sun, the silhouettes of the attendees fluttering with the elegance of ballerinas: their movements still smooth and controlled in the early night. On the entire length of the right wall hung a polished silver mirror, adding depth and size to the already massive gathering. Pedestals   
were placed equidistantly around the room, crystal vases sat neatly atop: lilies in the softest pinks, pale blue hydrangeas, irises, and white roses, picked from the royal gardens, were offset by the greenery of ferns and fuzzy lambs' ears. Their fragrance perfumed the air combining with the scent of the sweaty dancers creating an air of virile potency. The nine gods' images were painted attentively onto the ceiling; their faces happy and joyous as if they too were part of the festivities.   
"Announcing his Royal Highness, Prince Philip Michael Althalos Lester of Demelza," Harriot's voice boomed and seemed to echo off of the ceilings, and Phil watched, mesmerized as the herald's words were absorbed by the celebrators. The chatter of the dancers died to a quiet murmuring as their ears processed the announcement declaring Phil’s presence.   
Phil walked to railing of the balcony, his shoulders stiff and his head held high as if a stack of books was placed on his head instead of a crown, everything precariously balanced--one wrong move and it would come crashing down. He greeted his people with the customary wave of royalty: a wave that was actually more of a flick of the wrist than anything else. As he turned to claim the throne that was placed next to his father's--obviously, smaller and less elaborately decorated--he caught the subtle nod of approval from the King. Phil’s shoulders relaxed only slightly with the approval; at least he knew Kharac was safe and would remain unharmed.   
But Phil couldn't shake the nerves that had gripped him like a child grips their parents sleeves--quickly, intently, unyieldingly, and steadily. He couldn't get rid of the coil of anxiety that had formed on the base of his stomach, unraveling inch by inch, slowly filling him with dread. King Soren smiled at Phil and clapped him on the back as though he could tell how nervous his son was and was pleased by it.   
Phil almost flinched from his fathers steely glare and too-wide-to-be-sincere grin; the King was up to something, and tonight was the night he would tell Phil, and the everyone else for that matter. A shiver ran up Phil’s spine with the knowledge that his father had successfully hid something from him for gods know how long.   
Phil squared his shoulders and shook his head; doubting the king wouldn't change anything now. He turned on his heel so that his body mirrored King Soren's, and bowed slightly, muttering a respectful "father." He waited until his father laid a hand on his shoulder--awkward and formal, not loving and warm in the way a father's touch ought be--telling him to rise. As Phil rose from his bow, he met his father's small, cold, and calculating eyes.   
It was said that Phil got his eyes from his mother, but his looks from his father. Phil couldn't be sure if he only had his mother's eyes: she had died during childbirth and his father refused to talk about her when Phil was growing up: all pictures and mementos of her removed to the castle's cellar or burned. Since his father refused to tell Phil any stories or anything about his mom, Phil was forced to go to servants that had been house-staff when she was still alive. Few servants would tell Phil anything of substance, too afraid of what Soren would do if they were caught "filling the heir's mind with useless, irrelevant information." Phil knew it pained Soren to look into his son's eyes; the one time the king had spoken of his deceased wife, he had simply said "it's like I'm looking at her," before turning and retiring to his chambers. Phil remembered feeling ashamed after, staring into a mirror and wishing his eyes would change to match his fathers. Phil’s eyes were a light blue, a dark navy encircling them. Superstitious villagers said that his eyes weren't eyes at all; they said Phil’s eyes were actually drops taken from sacred shrine on the Sea of Deyanira, the crisp blues and slight hues of greens and yellows contrasting starkly with the milky white pools they were swimming in. But now, Phil liked his eyes: they marked him as different and reminded him he wasn't only like his father, he could be as kind and compassionate as his mother was said to have been.   
Phil and Soren had the same hair—black as the night sky. They had the facial structure, the same muscled arms and chest, but where Phil was modestly small in stature and blended in easily, his father rose above a crowd, always noticeable and always commanding an audience. Soren's face was hard-set, determined, and wrinkled from years of frowning; the few times he actually tried to smile, it looked like more of a grimace as if the muscles in his face had forgotten what to do and fallen into a state of disrepair. Phil’s face shone with youth; free of all wrinkles and blemishes, his eyes curious and ready to see the world, his smile was wide, showing a perfect mouth full of white, sparkling teeth. Phil was handsome in the way a prince ought to be; he was beautiful, but he carried himself with an inarguable aura of masculinity and grace.   
"--ing, dinner will be served and we shall feast in roasted goose with a fresh carouberry sauce, a green salad, a chilled soup, and a speciality wine sent to me from the Sariut providence." King Soren was looking at Phil expectantly, waiting for any sign that the prince had registered his words.  
"Yes, of course, father. But what exactly are we doing before dinner?" Phil could feel his face start to burn red as he admitted to his father he hadn't listened to a word he had said.   
The king just sighed, the corners of his mouth down-turned, showing his displeasure. "You will be greeting and dancing. Make sure you welcome everyone, especially the visiting family from Cynric. I have people to meet and an announcement to prepare" The King smiled dryly and turned to go, pausing when he was a few feet away and looking back at Phil. Looking directly into his reflection on his son's crown the king muttered, "Oh, and Philip? Please, pay more attention next time. You know I hate repeating myself." His voice was quiet enough that only Phil caught the words before they dissipated into the noise of the people around them, the king’s scolding swallowed and unnoticed by everyone else.  
Phil turned, his face and ears burning with embarrassment, his eyes searching for the family from Cynric. Suddenly, his hand was being pulled at a sharp right and Phil’s body collided with a young woman's, almost knocking them both over. Phil caught the young woman, setting her carefully on her feet before looking into her flushed face.  
"Oh my Abdima. I'm so sorry your highness; my friend got the bright idea that you and I ought to dance together." The young woman batted her dark eyelashes in a way that would have sent most men's hearts quickening, their pulse a steady drum, urging them to pursue. Phil, however, was indifferent: his pulse didn't quicken, his eyes didn't widen, and nothing stirred in stomach.   
As the only heir, Phil had danced with hundreds of ladies from all over the world, trying to find a suitable match--both for the throne and for Phil. Of course, Phil had only ever conversed with women; King Soren had outlawed homosexuality of any sort, refusing to even entertain the idea that happiness was more important than lineage. That had been quiet the argument between the stubborn king and his son--dinners were skipped for nearly a month, all confrontation awkward and feeble, the doors to Phil’s chambers remained untouched by anyone who wasn't Kharac. His father's ban on homosexuality had been the first time Phil had ever really questioned his father and his reign; the first time he had ever taken a step back and truly considered all the restricting and limiting and how the villagers would take it--would they  
be willing and ready to give up the smallest of rights for the promise of a better country, or would they be defensive and angry, ready to rebel to keep their most mundane of needs? It had been the first time Phil ever considered his future and what King Soren's rules meant for him: would he keep the laws in place when he was finally king, or would he let the people decide, letting the fate of Demelza rest in their untrained but knowledgable hands?   
Phil realized the young woman was still near him; in fact, their chests were still brushing, her dark green eyes, wide and waiting. What did she want? As if sensing the prince's confusion, the woman glared at his hand, willing it to move. Oh, right. She wanted to dance.   
Phil loosely held her left hand as he navigated their way to center of the room before clasping more firmly and gently placing his left hand on her hip, curling his fingers and adding the minimal amount of pressure, his fingers ghosting over the dull pink silk dress. He danced with the young woman—Hildagard—for a few minutes, her dress twirling and wrapping itself clumsily around her legs causing her to lose her footing every few counts, stumbling awkwardly and gracelessly into Phil’s chest, her hands pushing against his as she tried to right herself, but instead pushing them tactlessly into the people trying to dance around them. After Hildagard, dozens more followed suit, each vying for the prince's attention in a vain effort that tonight his princess would be found and she would be selected. It wasn't that Phil was bored with the women; he was just uninterested. He didn't want to marry someone his father had purposely invited, trying to set his son up. Phil wanted to marry someone of his choosing--not someone his father thought would look best seated on a throne next to Prince Philip, someone who would look beautiful and elegant in the royal robes, someone who was everything his father believed the Demelzan image needed.  
Not only was Phil’s heart not into the forced interaction, his mind was racing, waiting for his father's announcement. Nothing seemed as important as knowing. Curiosity was burning in his stomach, the flames incinerating the anxiety and apprehension, leaving behind the most primal of hungers: the hunger for knowledge. Phil was desperate to know; he was close to leaving the woman, instead finding the king in the jumble of bodies and demanding that he be told. If it had to do with Phil, he had a right to know. Didn't he? Or would King Soren say Phil’s desires didn't matter. It was Demelza that allowed him to breathe. It was Demelza that supplied Phil and the villagers with her lush forests, dense soil, and shining sun. It was Demelza that made Phil who he was, heir to her fine land: who was he to deny her? Phil’s happiness didn't matter so long as Demelza thrived; all she asked for in return was his happiness, and Phil ought to be willing and ready to sacrifice it. Gods know his father had.   
As Phil danced, his movements were fluid and graceful; nothing like the chaotic mess that was his mind. Thoughts were racing by, each trying to piece together clues and hints, trying to form a coherent idea as to what his father was up to. Phil was grasping at the air and he knew it: every subtle nod, every furrowed brow, every flick of the hand became prophetic in meaning.  
Phil had officially lost track of whom he had danced with tonight; he could have been dancing with a tree and he wouldn't have known or cared.   
As Phil finished dancing with whatever number this woman was, he bowed and as his eyes rose, his eyes caught sight of a mixture of browns and greens. They were so out of place in a sea of blues, pinks, oranges, and purples that Phil knew immediately it was the family from Cyrinc. Phil briefly wondered if that family had known Kharac’s; doubtful considering Cynric was twice the size of Demelza.   
Phil made his way to the visitors, only being forced to dance twice. The family immediately noticed Phil, their backs arching into an awkward bow.   
"Demelza welcomes you." Phil smiled and raised his hands, motioning to the dancers and the great room around him.   
"Oh, your highness. It's beautiful. Thank you for hosting us, especially in this time of celebration." The man, most likely the father, beamed and introduced the two people flanking his sides as his wife and daughter.   
Phil blinked, momentarily confused before remembering this family wasn't Demelzan and had no way of knowing that this was an ordinary ball. He chuckled, his eyes shining and joyous, a slight glaze from all the alcohol he had drunk, "you needn't thank me. This is just a regular ball, and besides, the more the merrier, right?"  
The man frowned, his brow furrowing, "I thought this was in celebration of the kings’ announcement?"   
Phil’s ears perked; why did this man know of the announcement and more importantly, did he know what the king was going to say? Phil weighed his options knowing that he would have one chance to trick the man into telling him, deciding that acting like he forgotten was the best course of action.   
"Right, of course. Remind me, what is the king announcing tonight?" Phil scratched his head as if the memory of the announcement was stored deep in his follicles and could be retrieved if he scratched hard enough. He hoped his voice had the right mixture of curiously and indifference; if he were too eager the man would surely figure it out.   
Phil kept his eyes on the man's, gnawing his lip as if asking for a reminder embarrassed him. The man was watching Phil warily--his green eyes were focused on Phil’s flickering back and forth between his eyes. Phil almost frowned when the man stiffened his back, his jaw tight but his eyes soft, pitying Phil. "He didn't tell you? Well, I guess we all ought to expect that, but to his own son. . ." The man's eyes widened and he backed away from Phil, just as the dinner bell rang. Relief washed across his face, his eyebrows calming and his mouth relaxing.   
"Ah! There's the dinner bell. We must go, but I wish you the best of luck your highness in all your future endeavors." The man gripped his wife's and daughter's hands spinning them and almost sprinting away before he stopped, yanking them both with him. The man looked back at Phil, his green eyes sad and worried, "the journey ahead shall be hard. But, please, for all of us, make the right decision." His voice oozed empathy and concern. He looked into Phil’s eyes and offered a small but fleeting smile before turning back and pulling his family with him.   
Phil was confused. He had no idea who this man was. He didn't know their name or anything about them, but this man seemed to know a lot about Phil and his future. What journey? What choice? Phil’s mind was essentially mud: everything was murky and sludgy. His thoughts were coated with a thick layer of darkness and dismay. He knew his father would make the announcement at dinner, and everything in Phil’s being was telling him to run. But Phil kept his head held high, balled his fists, and joined his father at the table, sitting to the left of the king.   
Dinner was impeccable. The dark meet of the goose was sweetened and softened with a fresh carouberry sauce. The green salad was made of vegetables from the castles gardens, crushed walnuts sprinkled on top, and a light carouberry vinaigrette was drizzled, sweeting the salad so that it was more like a desert than an appetizer. The chilled tomato soup offset the sweet tanginess of the goose, and was refreshing amid the mess of hot bodies, slick with sweat from dancing in thick, heavy dresses and robes.   
As the second glass of wine was being poured, King Soren stood, raising the glass in his right hand, making Phil’s stomach to clench. It was happening. He was going to know. A renewed flame of curiosity flickered to life in Phil’s stomach, the flames licking and lapping at his body, heating him in apprehension as Phil awaited the king's news.   
The chattering in the room quieted as the king stood, all eyes trained on the ruler. King Soren looked down at Phil at smiled, placing his left hand on Phil’s shoulder and squeezing.  
"As you are all aware, my son is ready and willing to lead Demelza and her people to reach even more glory and fame than I have." His father paused and the people murmured in agreement, Phil keeping his eyes on the king, fearful to move a muscle. Where was he going with this?  
"Before Prince Philip can lead, however, he must marry as is proper and expected of all royalty." Phil’s brows almost furrowed in confusion, but he fought it and was able to keep a reasonably straight face. What is the king doing?   
"That being said, I have to come to my decision: my son is to be married." The king looked at his son expectantly, as if this was some sort of epiphanic moment. This only confused Phil more; of course he was to be married. That was always the plan. Why would his father say all this? Unless. . . Phil’s thoughts caught up with his father's words and their meaning.  
No.  
Phil gripped the silver fork tightly in his palm, his face falling slightly but noticeably.   
King Soren smiled, glad that his son had made the right conclusion. The people, however, were still confused and the king inwardly sighed at their slowness.   
"Phil is to be married to Princess Adelaide of Avyanna."   
No.  
Phil didn't want to believe that his father had given his consent to marry off his son without once mentioning it to him. But he had.   
Phil was engaged. And to an Avyannaian of all things. Phil caught quiet murmuring of villagers, everyone focused solely on the word "Avyanna."   
Soren cleared his throat, waiting for all noises to stop. A servant placed a glass on the table, the noise loud and obtrusive in the silent room, like a rock through calm water. King Soren glared at the servant, his beady eyes cold and annoyed. The servant bowed and hurried out of the room, no doubt terrified of what Soren would do for the interruption.   
Soren cleared his throat, "Yes. I know you are fearful of Avyanna. But Demelzans and Avyannaians need to put aside their differences and unite, and this is the best way. In fact, the second oldest prince is on his way to Demelza right now. He will get Phil, as it's improper for an unmarried woman to travel across country without her fiancé present, and he will take Phil back to Avyanna where Adelaide and Phil will begin a royal wedding tour. Upon their arrival back to Demelza, the two will be married and a treaty shall be drawn, uniting the great lands." Soren's voiced boomed in the quietness, the sound ricochetting off of the walls before eventually colliding with Phil’s skull, the new information seeping in.  
This was really happening. Someone was going to come get him and whisk him away and when he returned, Phil would return a wedding. His own wedding.   
Anger was pouring itself out of his heart, churning with blood into a fiery concoction. His father's words hadn't been the soothing relief he had needed to put out the flames of curiosity; instead, a new fire was coursing itself through Phil’s body, colliding with the old, a burning sensation taking over his body. Anger burned his skin and thoughts, everything tense. But he must remain calm, at least until the night is over. For his people.  
Phil looked up at the king, who's eyes were malicious and waiting for Phil’s strike, asking the one question he cared about: “Who's coming for me?"   
The king blinked, surprised when Phil’s outrage didn't come, but smiled at his son for accepting his fate. Phil let the king believe he wasn't angry, there would be time for that later. He waited patiently for his father's answer, motioning with hands to remind his father he was waiting.   
Soren looked ahead to all the civilians, his eyes flitting across their faces, searching. Suddenly, they narrowed and Phil looked as well, surprised when he realized the man his father was glaring at was the one from Cyrnic.   
Phil clucked his tongue at his father, his patience waining.   
Soren simply flicked his eyes back to his son, collecting his robes as he began to stalk towards the man from Cynric, anger seeping out of his pours was almost tangible.   
He stopped, not bothering to face his son, and Phil’s ears strained to catch his words before the chatter that had commenced after his father's little speech engulfed them, claiming them as it's own.   
"Daniel. Prince Daniel of Avyanna."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom, chapter two. Alright, that's everything I have thus far. 
> 
> Abdima is the god of misfortune and sorrow and all that jazz. 
> 
> Comment, kudos, reread, share.
> 
> I shall start work on chapter three, but who knows how long that shall take.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


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